Twinkle
you don’t
but glow
you do
not yellow
not white
through my
window.
Half the
month I see you
riding
above my maple
and I
mostly ignore you
because
you’re steady
and I’m
busy with trivia.
I file you
under L
for later.
Since
muses unused dry up
in the
dark of the moon
(or so
some poets fear),
tonight I
welcome your light
as a
loving underflow
beneath my
busy overflow.
Tuning
into your glow
far beyond
the maple
yet as
near as here,
I let my writing listen.
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